The House Trip
by Sentimentalthoughts
Summary: The relationship between Shane and Oliver has become quite serious. Yet Oliver has never invited Shane to his house – until now. The setting is some time after The Road Less Traveled. The characters belong to the wonderful Martha Williamson.


The relationship between Shane and Oliver has become quite serious. Yet Oliver has never invited Shane to his house – until now. The characters belong to the wonderful Martha Williamson.

A note from the author: One of the delightful curiosities in _Signed, Sealed, Delivered_ is Oliver's home. We got a glimpse of it first in _From the Heart_. However, the view in _Home Again_ revealed more about how large and stunning the house is. My imagination was stirred as to the background of the house and the possibilities for the future. I tried to reconcile some of the information we have about the O'Toole family genealogy. We know that his grandfather was Chester Stanley O'Toole. A Joseph Lindley O'Toole lived in the house 1899 – 1907. He was Poet Laureate and a Man of Letters. We also know that a "great great" grandfather, Mad Dog O'Toole, worked for the Pony Express whose dates of operation are 1860 – 1861. Please allow me a little fanfic license and make Mad Dog a great, great, great, grandfather, You are such a kind and gracious audience. I hope you enjoy it. The characters are the inspiration of the great Martha Williamson.

Shane was both excited and a little nervous. After all, this would be her first visit to Oliver's house. A long time had passed since that cold February night that she jogged by the house and viewed him inside, sipping wine and reading a book. Now she dreamt of the two of them decorating their first Christmas tree in front of that same large window. The jogger and the man reading the book had become "a thing," "going steady," and were very much in hope of a future together.

Shane knew that it was a large historic house and her curiosity was killing her. She considered using her favorite investigative tools - a combination of honest Internet access and hacking skill - to glean information. However, she wanted to be a good girlfriend and trust the timing. The time seemed to have come.

Truth be told, as excited as she was for the invitation, Shane did not really care about the address at which she and Oliver built their future. It was the idea of a future with him for which she hoped. She wanted him to be the one with whom she took the time to watch roses grow and to sit in a porch swing.

Shane was not alone in contemplating such a future. Oliver thrived in her presence and longed for her in her absence. Sometimes late at night in the quiet of that big house, he wondered: could he and Shane build their own legacy, a family, in this space that had meant so much to generations of O'Tooles? Would he and Shane share quiet evenings reading in front of the fireplace? Would his son or daughter learn to walk in the same house his grandfather learned to walk? Would stories his grandfather told him about meals around the family table become their stories?

Oliver had his own set of questions whirling in his mind. What would Shane think of the house? Would she like it? Would it be no more than an antiquated relic to a thoroughly modern Millie? Would she reject something that meant the world to him? It had happened before. Oliver's heart was greatly healed of many past hurts, but there were still tender spots sensitive to rejection. This house was one of them. Whether this visit would be a time of reckoning with the truth or an occasion of rejoicing, the time had come.

It was a beautiful early fall Sunday – the day would be warm and the evening cool. Oliver would collect her midafternoon; Joe would join them at Oliver's home. Joe had recently purchased an outdoor grill for Oliver. It was the end of the season and on sale. Primarily, Joe thought this was another way they could spend time together and be outdoors. This day's plan was for the three to grill burgers and enjoy a casual evening together. It sounded simple enough – low key – no pressure. The complexity of the visit lay not in the plan but within the hearts of Shane and Oliver.

As they climbed the slate steps to the front entrance, Oliver could feel his nerves trying to get the best of him. "May I - I mean, would you," mumbled Oliver. The usually erudite wordsmith was struggling for words. In lieu of words he simply gestured and with a sweep of his hand invited Shane out of the entrance and further into foyer.

"Yes, thank you," said Shane, slowly moving forward and for some odd reason keenly aware of her heart beating faster with each step.

"The upstairs may still require some minor renewal and the downstairs is ever a work in progress but…," said Oliver, tilting his head and raising an eyebrow.

"It's home, and it's beautiful," Shane interjected.

"Beauty lies in the eyes of the beholder. I have learned," Oliver said, still feeling terribly awkward, hands shifting from his hips to behind his back.

Shane's eyes moved from hardwood floors to high ceilings, wide baseboards to wide crown molding, oak doors to open archways. In the middle of the large foyer was a staircase that hugged the interior wall and led to a second floor and apparently more rooms and high ceilings. She could envision herself descending those stairs to answer the door.

In the foyer a framed oil painting of the Colorado Blue Columbine hung above a narrow sideboard that was graced with an antique lamp and heavy brass bookends. The bookends held what appeared to be four early editions of classic works of literature.

"This house is a beautiful example of the intricacies inspired by the Victorian period - varied roof lines, bay windows, the use of depth and space, the staircase. Oliver, it is stunning."

Oliver breathed a sigh of relief and broke into a wide smile. No open rejection at first glance. At least she appreciated the architectural design of his house – no early dismissal, no disdain. Nevertheless, the question of whether or not she would be willing to call it home one day was something else. She could think it would make a nice museum. He had been told that once.

"What?" said Shane. "Oliver O'Toole, are you laughing at me?"

"I would never do such. I am glad you…approve…of the house. I was not certain if the computer savvy Ms. McInerney would have any enthusiasm for this century old edifice," said Oliver with a slight tilt of his head.

"Need I remind you that I was an art history major before I became a technological wizard. The influence of art on architecture was one of the required courses.," said Shane, feigning both arrogance and insult. "And, by the way, the Blue…."

Oliver looked away from the sideboard and was just about to call Shane's attention to the front room (or the library as he liked to think of it) to his right when their tour was interrupted.

"Hello! Anybody home?" called Joe, entering the kitchen from the porch at the back of the house.

Shane and Oliver quickly moved down the hallway toward the friendly beckoning of Joe's voice.

"Joe," said Shane.

"How's my son's favorite girl doing?" asked Joe.

Joe placed two brown paper bags of groceries on the kitchen counter and then turned to hug Shane.

"She is fine," chuckled Shane "hoping you mean me."

"No one else," said Joe.

Shane immediately helped Joe remove the items and placed them on the counter. She tried not to look as if she was inspecting every nook and cranny. Unfortunately the more she tried to force herself not to scrutinize the more the inspector general over took her brain. "Large room, gas stove, double ovens (not sure if they work), older side-by-side refrigerator, more nice big windows, lots of white, is that a pantry," she thought to herself. "A little pop of color would be nice."

Then she saw his coffee maker and for a brief moment her mind filled with the image of greeting Oliver in this kitchen every morning for the rest of her life and she smiled. She would come in the kitchen to freshly brewed coffee and to his warm embrace, resting her head against his navy bathrobe….Shane had no clue if Oliver had a navy bathrobe or not, but it was her daydream. Embarrassed by her own imagination and the sense that she may be blushing, she subconsciously bit her bottom lip and virtually buried her head in one of the paper bags. "Oops keep your mind on your work," a voice inside her brain commanded.

Oliver saw the faraway look in her eyes. He saw her bite her bottom lip. Her hands may be unpacking a paper bag but her mind was somewhere else. Oliver's fear drove his thoughts straight to his own insecure conclusions. "It's happening again. She doesn't like it here - big, old rambling house. What was I thinking? Why didn't I install a dishwasher before she came?"

"And look how **efficient** she is," said Joe, punctuating the word efficient. Joe's voice snapped Oliver and Shane back to matters at hand.

"Dad," Oliver muttered quietly, dropping his head and while still eyeing his father. He was already nervous enough. His did wouldn't share the "efficient" story. Would he?

"Am I missing something?" asked Shane, noticing the glances between the two men.

"Of course not," quickly said Oliver.

It was obvious there was an inside joke and Shane was on the outside. She chose to merely chuckle, shake her head, and continue work.

Whatever inside joke the two men shared that even may be at Shane's expense, it was welcomed. It gave her a sense of belonging, a sense of place. As she folded the emptied paper bag Shane pictured Oliver helping her bring in the groceries - their groceries; Joe coming through the back door to be greeted by grandchildren. Most of all Shane hoped that today Oliver would envision her putting away their groceries. that she belonged here – that she belonged with him. It was the three of them laughing and working together and for a while it blew away the cloud of doubt that tried to overshadow dinner.

"All right. I'm going to break-in that new grill while you two open a bottle of wine or a couple of Colorado's finest. Dinner will be ready before you know it," said Joe.

"Do you need any assistance?" asked Oliver.

"No, I've got the outside. You two get the inside," said Joe, winking at Oliver.

Joe was well aware that his was the first time Shane had been in Oliver's house. Oliver had insisted that his dad come as "chaperone for the sake of Shane's reputation. It would not be appropriate and may cause Shane discomfort for them to be alone the first time in so large a house." At least that was Oliver's argument. There were myriad ways Joe could have challenged Oliver on that excuse. Instead, the supportive dad knew that for whatever reasons his son simply felt he needed him there, and there he would be.

The truth about why Oliver wanted his dad present was actually twofold. Oliver thought his dad's presence would make for a more lighthearted evening and less focus on the house itself. This would give Shane time to develop perhaps a good memory associated with the house as well as approval and hopefully affection for the house. And if she really didn't like the house, his dad's presence would obfuscate that fact and delay his having to face it. This house meant a great deal to Oliver. He didn't want it to be just his house. Some day he wanted it to be their home.

Oliver opened the refrigerator and removed condiments, a platter of sliced tomato and lettuce, and a container of potato salad.

"Oliver, you thought of everything," said Shane. "You even have potato salad."

"Yes, the long promised potato salad. I would not want to disappoint you twice," said Oliver.

Shane placed her hand on his arm, "Nothing about our time in D.C. was a disappointment. That was one of the most memorable weeks of my life. And you – my patriotic, passionate, philanthropic postal detective - are the reason why."

Oliver could not help but beam from the lavish praise that was preceded by a possessive pronoun from his privately flirtatious girlfriend. He looked over his right shoulder toward the back door, then turned his face to Shane and gave her a quick kiss on her cheek.

"We better keep working. Dad will have the hamburgers cooked before we are fully prepared," said Oliver.

Time and preparation passed quickly. Before long the three were seated at the table enjoying dinner together. There was pleasant conversation and there was polite laughter. They shared stories of mail deliveries and of happy moments from Oliver's early childhood. The evening was going very well.

"Where was he?" asked Shane.

"He was rolling that inner tube, which was as big as he was, down the street," said Joe.

"I was a very adventurous five year old," said Oliver. He smiled, looked down at his plate, and fidgeted with his flatware.

"Where was he going?" chuckled Shane.

"Oh he was going floating on Boulder Creek - in February," laughed Joe.

"And eventually, I did enjoy floating on Boulder Creek, just when it was not covered with ice," stated Oliver, very matter of fact.

"Apparently my dad had told Oliver that anytime that he wanted to go floating on Boulder Creek that he would be there," said Joe. "Oliver took him literally. He thought that if he went my dad would just automatically show up. I think that day he was more interested in spending time with my dad than floating down the creek."

It was a great story. Smiles and warm laughter from the three filled the room.

"You loved your grandfather very much," said Shane. "He must have been a very fine man."

"I did, and he was," said Oliver. His eyes said that at that moment he had gone somewhere back in time to a beloved memory.

"But you also loved the outdoors as a little guy?" asked Shane, more than a little surprised.

"Yes I did. And the camping trip with my dad has renewed my spirit of adventure," said Oliver. This was neither the time nor the place to reveal what cost him his love of the outdoors.

"We are planning another trip," said Joe.

"Are you serious?" said Shane.

"Indeed we are," said Oliver. "Only this time we will let someone know where we are going."

"May I recommend ankle monitors with GPS tracking ability?" said Shane.

The three laughed again. Oliver began to stand.

"Excuse me for a moment. I am going to serve dessert," said Oliver.

"Here, let me help," said Joe, quickly rising from his chair.

"I…" began Shane. Before she could finish or move the men assured her that they had everything under control and went to the kitchen.

"Oliver, the outdoor kid," thought Shane. "He mentioned Boulder Creek when we were trapped in that bank vault. I wonder what happened to that little boy who loved the outdoors."

As she sat alone at the dining table she noticed through the opened double doors into the front living room another painting hanging over the fireplace. It was of a creek with tiny blue flowers along the bank. She wanted a closer look. Could it be Boulder Creek? She got about halfway to the painting when the signature caught her eye. No. No. No. No. It can't be. Even from a distance the H, y and O'Toole signature of the artist were quite clear. Holly O'Toole? He never mentioned that she was an artist. Holly knew about Boulder Creek enough to paint it? Had the two of them been there together? They had never been there. That had to be an intimate gift. Shane was drawn to the painting as a moth to the flame. However, her investigation was halted as she heard the men coming from the kitchen. A bit stunned, she returned to her seat.

The afternoon that had been oh so sunny and pleasant was suddenly overtaken by the shadow of nightfall, and with nightfall came the shadows of the past.

Her mind stayed on the painting. "The painting in the foyer – it's the same artist. I can tell. How could he keep paintings by her? An outdated kitchen with too much white is one thing, paintings by your ex are another."

Shane felt uncomfortable and confused. There were many things she thought she might encounter at Oliver's house – antiques, no internet, even no built-in closets. She had not grappled with the idea of the remnants of another woman – another wife.

"And for dessert we have a scoop of vanilla ice cream and a cookie," said Joe.

Shane jumped in her chair startled from her thoughts. "Oh thank you," said Shane.

"Disconcerted? Lost in thought?" asked Oliver.

"I was just wondering …..what treat you two were preparing?"

"We provide for you a simple, unadulterated sweet closure to the unpretentious hamburger and potato salad," said Oliver.

"And it is the perfect ending, I might add," said Shane forcing a smile.

Oliver bought none of it. One of the weaknesses of a quick mind is its capacity to go rapidly down the wrong path. "Is that really what you're wondering? Why the sudden chill? You once called me a human antique. Is this house too Victorian for the technology driven Ms. McInerney?" Oliver thought.

His mind was whirling. Perhaps it was all the talk about the past that made him fear that he was about to relive it. Her approval of the house and perhaps even him was too good to be true. His mother never understood his infatuation with the house when they would drive by just so he could see the place of which his grandfather so lovingly spoke. Holly never wanted this house. Why did the women in his life seem to reject the very symbols of things he valued? The baggage of doubt became too heavy to continue to hold inside. Fear overtook confidence.

As the three rose from the table so did Oliver's defenses. They began to clean the kitchen – putting away condiments, washing by hand the few remaining dishes. The more they worked together the more uncomfortable things became. All the misgivings made Oliver uneasy and unsure.

"Shane, I will take care of that," said Oliver curtly. "I am sure that you are accustomed to the modern convenience of a dishwasher."

"I'm fully capable of washing dishes," said Shane.

Oliver stepped in front of the sink and Shane stepped aside.

"I don't have paintings by an ex-boyfriend and certainly not a former spouse in my house – and you're being short with me," Shane thought.

Joe sensed the tension building and frankly he felt a little like a third wheel.

"I'll just put these away," said Shane.

"No," said Oliver rather sharply.

"I'm standing right here," said Shane.

"Well it's just that I have certain ….," Oliver hesitated. He had no intentions of allowing her more access to discovering things she disliked about his house. She may discover the bottom cabinet squeaked. She did not like for things to squeak.

"Oh, I'm sorry. You have places you like everything to go," said Shane defensively. "And I may not put them where they belong."

"It is just that you are my guest. You should not be doing menial kitchen chores."

"Yes, a guest," was Shane's reply.

Guest. And there it was. She was a guest. The use of the word stung as badly as "just friends." In part it hurt because it was true. This was not their home. It was solely Oliver's house. If her dreams of decorating Christmas trees and greeting him for breakfast had been made of glass, you would have heard them shattering. She was an interloper. Once again she thought she had run ahead of his heart in their relationship. After all, he still had paintings by his ex-wife hanging in the house.

Knowing that a rebuke was coming from his dad and feeling ashamed of his discourteous tone, Oliver turned to his dad to salvage the moment.

"Dad, perhaps you would like to take Shane and go sit in the front room. I will join you momentarily," said Oliver.

"I wish I could, but I have an early morning appointment with a garden," said Joe.

Addressing his comments to Shane, Joe continued. "We will have to do this at my place sometime. Invite Norman and Rita. Maybe Bill and Sunny can come. We will make it a party."

"That sounds good to me," said Shane, somewhat feebly. "I'll be glad to help. If you want me that is."

"I'll count on it," said Joe. The words "if you want me" were not lost on Joe. He cut his eyes at Oliver. With a nod from Joe, Oliver walked his dad out the back door as Shane turned to go the front.

"Everything ok?" asked Joe.

"Of course, Ms. McInerney is probably tired," said Oliver.

"Ms. McInerney? I see. I wouldn't be too quick to take the tired **Ms. McInerney** home. I don't know what went wrong back there, and you don't have to tell me. Son, I hope you fix it before the evening ends."

"I will. Dad, I love you," said Oliver.

"Love you too," said Joe.

While Oliver felt the support and encouragement from his father, Shane felt very alone as she made her way through the house. This time she noticed the entrance to the master bedroom that was by the staircase. Curiosity mixed with her longing for a future with Oliver overtook her as she stepped just inside the door.

The oak floors provided a picture frame for a path-worn oriental rug. Sun-faded draperies hung from tall windows. An antique walnut bed with massive headboard was flanked by nightstands. A lamp and a Bible with his grandfather's pen were on one bedside table. Some type of journal appeared to be underneath the Bible. Another lamp and a silver picture frame with a black and white photograph of a man and woman rested on the other bedside table.

She stalled in the doorway. Before her was a glimpse into the private space of Oliver O'Toole. This was the room in which he slept, dressed, read Scripture, and knelt to pray. This was not a high school crush or even a college guy who took you sailing for the weekend. This was a relationship with a grown man with a past – romantic interest of his own – former wife. Had he shared this space with Holly? Did she choose those drapes? She knew Oliver had been married. She had met the impetuous and beautiful Holly. Shane had been the one to help pick up the pieces of his shattered heart. So what if he still had a painting hanging in the foyer by his ex-wife. Could this ever be their house – just theirs – together? Funny how green with envy a heart filled with doubt and fear can become. Why couldn't she let this go? She felt foolish. Oliver's life did not begin at coffee cart. Neither did hers.

Hearing the back porch door snap shut, Shane quickly stepped out of the bedroom and continued to the front. She breezed by the watercolor in the foyer. She couldn't bear to look at it again. And now here she stood in the same room as the painting of Boulder Creek. Instead of sitting relaxed dreaming of evenings together by the fireplace, she stood looking at nothing at all out the same large window she once peered longingly into from a cold February street.

Oliver entered the room and stood behind her.

"My father has become a master gardener," said Oliver. "The community garden yields enough vegetables to provide produce for the neighborhood child development center in addition to money being raised from sales at the farmers market."

"That's nice," said Shane.

Shane did not turn around at the sound of his voice. He knew she may be responding but she was no longer listening.

"I fear I was unpleasant in the kitchen earlier. I am unaccustomed to such gracious help," said Oliver, trying to make amends.

"Oh no, no not at all," said Shane. "I...I overstepped. I didn't mean to be intrusive."

"No, you were not intrusive," said Oliver. "I was just hoping very much that you would like the house."

At that point Shane turned to face him. Bafflement filled her face. Then it just came out. "I do like the house. It's the paintings."

"Pardon?" replied Oliver.

"The Columbine and the painting over the fireplace," said Shane.

"You don't like those paintings? I know you have a degree in art but really. They may not be old masters or some contemporary abstraction of reality but they are quite lovely and you should know why they mean a great deal to me."

"And you should know why they bother me," said Shane.

"I fear that you are going to have to explain yourself. I am astonished," said Oliver.

"Holly," said Shane.

"What does Holly have to do with this?" said Oliver.

"The artist was your ex-wife!" said Shane.

"Holly? No she was not. My great grandfather Henry O'Toole, is the artist," said Oliver.

"Oh Oliver I'm sorry," said Shane, covering her mouth with one hand, her other arm still across her waist. She felt foolish and yet still somehow insecure.

"You thought…" Oliver began.

"I saw the painting through the doorway and could see the H and the y and…Oh, Oliver, I am so embarrassed."

"I would never have a trace of another woman in this house," said Oliver, taking her hands in his and looking into her eyes.

"Come with me. I have something to show you."

Oliver led her through the house, back through the kitchen and onto the large, sweeping back porch. To the left were white wicker chairs with a table just as there had been on the porch of Jonathan Walker. To the right, hanging from the porch ceiling, was a porch swing.

"Oliver, you never mentioned a porch swing," said Shane.

"I did not have one to mention - until recently. I wanted to have it for you before I invited you," said Oliver. "I hoped that it might cause you to feel more at home here. One day you may want to sit here and drink your morning coffee."

Shane's eyes welled with tears.

"Or watch roses grow or children playing in the back yard?" Shane replied gently.

With that whisper into her future dreams, Oliver's eyes became misty too. He invited her to sit with him as he painted his own picture of their future here.

"I thought we might plant a small rose garden on the left," said Oliver.

"We have to leave enough room for a swing set," said Shane.

"A large swing set or a small swing set?" said Oliver.

"Oh room for maybe two or three," said Shane.

"There is a vacant lot behind the house. I could inquire concerning the purchase of that property if you want a multifaceted swing set large enough to accommodate five, six, or seven swings," teased Oliver.

"Oh no, I don't think that will be necessary," laughed Shane.

"Please tell me, were the paintings the only thing that disturbed you?"

"I was just wondering how long have you lived here," said Shane.

"I bought the house before you moved to Denver. Are you certain that you like this house?" asked Oliver.

"No. I mean yes. I mean…did Holly… live here?" said Shane.

Oliver stretched his arm across the back of swing and around Shane's shoulders and pulled her closer to him. "This was our ancestors' home for four generations before it was lost late during the Great Depression to my direct lineage. The house held wonderful memories for my grandfather. He would share tales with me of playing in the attic, getting into trouble sliding down the bannister, even eating ice cream on the back porch as a little boy with the young girl who one would become my grandmother."

"The house was available for purchase when Holly and I married. I deeply wanted to reclaim the house. She would have none of it so I agreed to an apartment downtown. She saw this house as…as an albatross around her neck. I admit at the time the house was in disrepair," said Oliver. "That is in part how…"

"How you could afford it," interrupted Shane. "But you didn't buy it then?"

"Not at first. Holly was adamantly against it."

"That must have been very hurtful for you. So how did you change her mind? Oh, sorry, pretend I didn't ask that."

"Shane," chided Oliver lowering his chin.

"All right," said Shane, biting her bottom lip.

"Not long after Holly left, the real estate market completely collapsed in Denver and purchasing became a greater possibility. The house needed restoring and…and so did I. I bought the house within a few months of her leaving. I would come home and spend evenings and weekends sanding, painting. I told myself that if I could get everything done by the time she returned that she would see in it what I did. That was never true. I confess that the purchase was never for her. It was always for me. For me this house represented the hope of family. To answer your question, no, Holly never lived here."

"Did you assume I would not like the house?" said Shane.

"I was fearful of reliving my past. I was afraid that it was so much a vestige of the past that you could not see it in…our future," said Oliver.

"I like that," said Shane.

"What do you like?" asked Oliver.

"Our future," said Shane.

Oliver had not been as open about anything with Shane since that afternoon in the hospital chapel. He was laying bare the truth and it was freeing for them both.

"Regardless of where our future is built, I believe Jonathan Walker was right," she replied. "All that mankind can build of steel and glass and stone cannot compare to a life built on a foundation of love for another and faith in something greater than oneself."

"You really believe that," said Oliver.

"Yes," said Shane.

"I have learned _unless the Lord builds the house, those who build it labor in vain,"_ continued Oliver.

"We will not build in vain," said Shane. "And building that future here would be fine with me. If you ever want to do something like that – with me – that is."

Oliver wrapped both arms around her and drew her close. "Are you certain?"

"With the addition of Wi-Fi and a dishwasher of course," said Shane with a smile.

"Of course, with the addition of Wi-Fi and a dishwasher," repeated Oliver.

"You really went out and bought another porch swing – for me?" said Shane.

"Yes, I did. I only buy porch swings for you," said Oliver. "I did however install this one in light of day."

And if you had been Oliver O'Toole's neighbor, you could have heard laughter coming from the porch next door and, for some reason, its gentle warmth would have caused you to smile as well.

Psalm 127: 1

Unless the Lord builds the house,  
those who build it labor in vain.


End file.
